Home is Hard

Reflections on home, memories and a red rocket with a broken wing…

There’s an understated beauty in Indiana cornfields. My wife didn’t understand it at first. Lots of people don’t. But I do.

Because it’s my home.

To me, Indiana cornfields represent simpler times and deeply-held memories. I smile when I see them.

Recently, I went home. It wasn’t a long trip. In fact I only live about 20 minutes from the house where I grew up. I spend most of my time in the same community I was raised in. And yet, there’s still something significant about going home.

For me, home is a house with yellow siding out in the country of northern Indiana. There’s a wooden pole in the front yard. I ran into it one time playing football with my dad and my brother. There’s the big oak trees that give our street its name. An evergreen stands as a sentry at the end of our driveway, looking out over the cornfield that always seemed to make the perfect stage for a beautiful sunset.

Our old wooden picnic table sits in the shadow of the evergreen. It has seen better days. So has the part of our fence that bent from a bonfire that got just a little too big. And there’s the basement filled with cobwebs and boxes.

Everywhere I looked, I saw something associated with a memory. Many of the memories were good. Some were bad. All of them were in the past. When I walked in the door, I was immediately struck by silence. In that moment, I realized something…

Home is hard.

The Red Rocket, the Butterfly Hill and the Basketball Hoop

There’s so many memories packed into one place. You feel like you need to give time to all of them. But how can you possibly commemorate them all?

There’s the red rocket that is in the same place my dad and I left it after we took it to the fair. We put hours into that rocket, but we didn’t place. Looking back, those hours spent with my dad were better than any trophy or ribbon.

There’s the hill where I helped my mom plant flowers. We called it the “butterfly hill” because of all the beautiful butterflies that would frequent it. My mom and I would take trips to get the flowers together, then I would help her plant them. Mom would plan out the placement of each individual flower. The final product was spectacular. But no flower is as beautiful to me as the memories of kneeling next to my mom with a spade in my hand and dirt on my knees.

And of course there’s the familiar scene — my brother and I playing sports together. We were inseparable. Basketball was our first love. We’d play for hours in the driveway, just like the good Indiana boys we were. I’ll never forget the first time I beat him one-on-one. I hit a fadeaway three that banked in. Evan called it lucky. I called it a game-winner. But the sweetness of victory doesn’t come close to the experience of having your older brother teach you how to shoot a basketball.

Later on, we started playing baseball in our neighbor’s backyard. We played with a tennis ball. You might think that playing one-on-one baseball is impossible. You’d be wrong. We would have to guess if a hit would have fallen for a single or whether it would have been caught. You can imagine the differences of opinion two brothers had in those situations. But it sure felt good to get ahold of one and hit it high into the oak tree in our backyard.

I could go on and on. So could you. That’s why we love our homes. They play our greatest hits on repeat from a time when the world was a little simpler.

That’s why home is hard — the world isn’t simple.

We realize that when we go back. The rocket has a broken wing. The hill is overrun by weeds. And the basketball hoop in the driveway is long gone. There may be a stray tennis ball in the neighbor’s bushes, but you don’t want to look for it because you know it will only be faded and tattered.

I wondered why it had been so long since I thought of these memories. It felt so good to walk through my old backyard. But I knew that I would have to leave soon. I’d go back to my new life. The yellow house and all its memories would stay here. I felt an odd mixture of pain and contentment.

Like I said, home is hard.

Home is Good

Even after all that has changed, though, home is still so good.

No other couch feels quite like the couch at home. The birds sound clearer in the spring air. And there’s something special about looking up at the stars from your front yard. No matter what, it will always be home. It’s just…different now.

I’m glad I went home. I’m glad I heard the crunch of the sticks beneath my feet. I’m glad I saw the ripples in the pond that can only come from a frog diving to the safety of a lily pad. When I was younger, I would have spent hours chasing that frog with my handy net. Now I was content just to watch. I’m glad I saw the picnic table. I didn’t move it and I don’t think I have the time to refinish it. But if tables can think, I’m pretty sure it was glad I thought of it again.

I’m glad I saw the alpaca farm where I used to work. It taught me the importance of a good work ethic and what happens when you leave the gate open between the male and female pens.

I’m especially glad I saw the red rocket. Yes, it had lost a wing. The parachute had holes from where the engine had burned through it. The paint was chipping, and it certainly showed signs of wear and tear. But it was good.

Like home.

A Far, Green Country

If you know me, you know that I love The Lord of the Rings. In the movie version of The Return of the King, there is a moment when Gandalf is talking to Pippin in the midst of a raging battle. Pippin asks Gandalf if this is the end. Gandalf responds with one of my favorite quotes from the entire movie:

“End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path — one that we all must take. The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it.”

“What, Gandalf? See what?” Pippin asks.

“White shores, and beyond, a far, green country under a swift sunrise.”

It’s impactful to me. When you watch the movie, you can notice a twinkle in Pippin’s eyes when he hears Gandalf mention “a far, green country.” I think it’s because it reminded him of his home — The Shire. When the situation was dire and all hope seemed lost, he found comfort thinking of home.

That’s why I felt like I needed to experience all the memories I could when I came home. Memories are comforting. Sometimes we feel like we should just stay and relish the memories. Push out the real world and go back to the days of playing football with my brother in the front yard.

But that world doesn’t exist any more. Things are different. All that is left are my memories. I’ll always love that world. The red rocket, the butterfly hill and the basketball hoop — that’s my far, green country. But to solely live in the memories would mean missing out on the memories that are being made today.

Going Home

I walked out to my car to go back to the place that I call home now. It’s an apartment in the next city. I don’t think the yellow house minds much that I call it home now. We have a mutual understanding that things have changed. It’s just the way things are.

As I pulled out of the driveway, I was greeted by a classic Indiana sunset over that same cornfield. It looked as beautiful as ever.

Home is hard, but it will always be good.